Inevitable
by paperbarks
Summary: Gilbert gets by on drink, and Ludwig on morality.


"You look like shit," was the first thing Gilbert said upon slipping into the trench. In a way, even without a mirror or any way of knowing if he was telling the truth, Ludwig believed him; moreover, he had the sense his brother was being affectionate.

While any number of Gilbert's gestures could be interpreted however one wished, Ludwig wanted to appreciate this one, to take it as it was; even the inane was a stark improvement on silence. It was more flattering than being likened to a corpse, as he privately felt was more appropriate.

But anything of that sort would be a little too relevant.

"I know I can count on you for compliments," he answered gently, tilting his chin in his brother's direction, glad to hear himself talk. "You're lucky I'm in the mood for it."

"That's pretty unusual, isn't it? Half the time I come near you, you act like you're embarrassed we're related."

"It isn't like that, Gilbert. You're just distracting." Ludwig paused; he felt for the scar on his left forearm, the raised skin and hard bumps, promising healing. Not everything scabbed over in the same way. He sighed, as quietly as possible.

"It's not like I'm offended. But I reckon your comrades would think mighty highly of me and we ought to get introduced some time." He slung an arm around Ludwig's shoulders, knees looking like they were due to cave in any day. There was dirt by his jaw, his lips, his brow (and it could _just_ as easily be that he kept himself looking that way because he thought it yielded a rogue-ish look, as it could be that he was only _apathetic_ ). Ludwig stiffened, noting the spirits on his breath. It felt warmer against his ear than usual, when Gilbert typically came to throw some half-hearted quip to the cold air. But Gilbert never drank liquor - not at home.

"So, my own brother's starting to sound like an American."

When a gunshot sounded overhead, _cutting_ , somehow reminiscent of the screeches of the trains at home, Ludwig lurched himself away, knowing already that Gilbert had felt for his gun. He probably should've, too – if only he wasn't accustomed to reaching impulsively, and catching himself midway, once the danger had blown away to nothingness, leaving the soldiers hanging.

(Not literally, of course - but some days, the conditions told Ludwig that he may as well be giving men nooses as guns, sending them off with a flourish.)

But Gilbert was different - a shattered immortal, of sorts, with the air and manners of someone who had already lived through a dozen wars. There was an odd _grace_ with Gilbert: the speed with which he raised his rifle and nestled it by his shoulder was so fluid it was _engrossing_. Only, at that moment, it was a stunted raise of the arm. He put his hand on the trigger, briefly convulsed his fingers, thought better of it, and resigned, leaning on it instead. Both hands on the muzzle, spine bent, he looked tired in Ludwig's eyes, so tired it was almost unearthly. For a moment, the gun looked like a cane.

Ludwig pitied him, but more than anything else, it was a reminder that neither of them were what they once were. He never had time for drinking anymore, for cooking or playing the violin, and they certainly didn't still sit down to do algebra together. What a slim, sad little existence it had been! Maybe it was still just as bad, and he was refusing himself the comfort of genuine acceptance in the face of imminent demise.

"You should drink less and preserve your health for battle," he said shortly. "You know as well as I." A shine entered Gilbert's expression almost immediately, but there was an edge of bitterness, a reluctance to be wholeheartedly merry.

"Are you my mother, Ludwig?" _Again_ with his smiles stopping short of themselves. "It won't be the first thing we pretend about. Just look at that coffee they try to feed us. It tastes fucking terrible."

"It's no one's fault. Besides, you made a conscious choice to join the German army. I think you picked the wrong war; or maybe I should have just let you go. You could've done better somewhere else, in a different time."

So often, disturbingly, Gilbert vanished into the unfitting veil of a younger sibling. "Yeah, why the hell did you let me go off to war? Heartless bastard."

"So you _did_ choose the wrong war?"

"You ever hear what went down between – what was it, Zanzibar? – and England? I hear it was over real quick, so quick nobody knew what happened. What I wouldn't give to get some fucking medals that way."

Ludwig exhaled, as exhausted as if he had woken up from a faint, and he watched his breath disperse with avid concentration. "You don't get medals for killing people."

"Don't you? Then what's it for? We're hardly fighting for world peace, here." Cynicism didn't fit him well at all. It sounded completely wrong on his lips, Ludwig thought, as he watched Gilbert cover half his face with a gnarled hand and press himself against the trench wall, breath thinned and harsh. Aged drops of blood had seeped through his uniform, now dry and flaking; on Ludwig's, too.

The sight, insignificant as it was, still made Ludwig think. Hadn't they both developed similar subconscious habits in the short term? They both pressed hands to the cloth to hide wounds, bayoneted rats when it was too dark to see anything over the trench wall, held their hands near the tender parts of their skin because they knew the lice would soon return. To admit it to each other would probably be rather funny, but he didn't care to. Not then.

"Hey," began Gilbert, "I've got an idea."

Ludwig wanted to smile, to expect something _thrilling_. God, he wanted to smile - hadn't a hundred conversations started this way, back home? The playfulness, the determination. Ludwig prayed he'd never take for granted the mercy that was Gilbert's very existence.

"What is it?"

"Let's go home. Right now. Leave this shithole behind."

The next thing Ludwig knew was how his hands were slipping, slipping on his gun enough that it fell, losing grip of his tired reality, and Gilbert was still talking, _still_ with his hoarse pronunciation.

"Oh, God, are you teary? You've got shoulders broader than a fucking horse and you're crying? I was kidding, you know I—"

"Germany will go on without me," he muttered, hurried, pressing his fingers to the corners of his eyes. "The people will go on without me stabbing someone through the chest, won't they? Why does anyone need me here?"

"You're good at your job, you know." He heard the abrupt change, the new softness in Gilbert's tone, but Ludwig's innards burned all the same. He wanted peace, he wanted safety, he wanted a damned moment of quiet. He didn't care for comforts. Comforts achieved little to nothing, and thus they were fruitless, as fruitless as the war he was surviving while fed on patriotism and fuelled by the disadvantage that was his own moral compass, his addiction to loyalty.

"I'm a mistake. I'm not supposed to desire an end."

Admittance would only lead to one conclusion: he had no reason to tolerate himself.

"But everyone does. And changing people's minds isn't easy, a lot of the time."

"If we could, the world could well be better than it is now. We could've stopped this whole thing from happening."

"But what's done is done. You know that."

"Do I?"

"Pretend you do. For my sake. For your big brother." There was another gunshot, and Gilbert clucked his tongue, watching Ludwig closely. "We can't stop what's happening now, but we can stop it happening again. That's your mission, now."

" _When_. Until then, our place is here." Despite his conviction, his voice wavered. It would have been imperceptible to anyone but Gilbert.

But Gilbert grinned, and that was all it took for Ludwig's mind to almost, _almost_ lighten. "Yeah. We'll do it together."


End file.
